


To Sleep Before You

by claro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Trigger warning for suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 19,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9699986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: Greg Lestrade has been Mycroft's best friend for a long and has helped him through some of the worst moments of his life, but he is all to aware that Mycroft's personal pain goes much deeper than he even knows.When Mycroft does something drastic, Greg finally decides that enough is enough.





	1. Chapter 1

Greg had, through a massive amount of hard word and a bit of luck in that he was in the bathroom when an urgent case came in which was instead allocated to Dimmock, finished work early. He'd spent a whole three minutes getting changed and raked his fingers through his hair as he charged towards his car, the theatre tickets safely in his pocket.

Mycroft wasn't answering his phone, which was nothing unusual as the politician's time was usually strictly scheduled with work, or getting read for work, or ignoring work to hang out with Greg. When people saw them out together at one of Mycroft's business or charity obligations they assumed that Greg was some bit of rough being paid to flash a smile at everything Mycroft said to make him look interesting. And when people saw them out together at the Policeman's Ball or some distant realtive's wedding they tended to assume that Mycroft was Greg's highly paid escort. When John saw them giggling together, heads bent over a table as they made fun  of a menu or the questionable fashion choices of the people around them he assumed they were just good friends. When Sherlock saw them out together he threw up a little bit and then promptly deleted it.

None of these assessments were true. Mycroft was Greg's best friend. As simple as that.

When Greg met Mycroft he had initially thought him very aloof and rude. He certainly didn't relish spending his precious Saturday night off sitting in a car in the rain watching out for a spy from Greg's department who Mycroft had confided was going to make a drop to pass on sensitive information. The first hour was absolute torture as they sat in silence, each ignoring the other and wishing they were anywhere else.

'This is a waste of time. No one is going to come out in this weather.' Greg sighed, 'I had things to do tonight?'

'Manicure, perhaps?'

Greg tried not to make it obvious as he looked down at his own rough hands, and when he looked up again at Mycroft's disinterested profile he took a chance.

'What about you? Hairdresser?'

'Lately it seems I have an increasingly luxury of not needing one. I suppose I'm just fortunate like that,' Mycroft sighed theatrically, still refusing to look at Greg, 'However shall I fill my time.'

'Getting into cars with strange men,' Greg fired back, his mouth refusing to engage his brain, 'Isn't that what all you types do?'

'Gays?'

'Politicians.'

This time Greg noticed the slight twist of a smile on Mycroft's face and he filed away this little bit of news for a later date.

And so began a strange sort of friendship where, if they weren't insulting each other, they were insulting other people, or defending each other from people who aternately wanted to kill, or more distressingly, date one of them. Greg had his own key and room in Mycroft's house, and Greg's fridge was half full of strange green vegetables and there were Russian novels jumbled with the football magazines on Greg's coffee table. Mycroft introduced Greg to political garden parties with unlimited free champagne and Greg introduced Mycroft to the messy lad's weekend in Brighton.

Mycroft taught Greg bridge and Greg taught Mycroft to drive. 'Seriously, you can helicopter but you can't drive a fucking car?'

Greg took Mycroft to the zoo. 'I really don't need to see another animal, Gregory, I grew up with Sherlock.' And Mycroft took Greg to the NATO control room. 'I don't think we are supposed to be in here, Myc.' 'Ah, Mr Holmes, would your guest like a go at pushing some buttons?' 'Thank you, Ambrose, a go on everything I think.'

Greg invited Mycroft's parent for dinner one weekend he knew they were in town, and Mycroft surprised Greg with a trip to see his parents in Agde when he knew Greg wanted to see his new born niece but couldn't afford to. What he didn't tell Greg was that he was coming to. What Greg didn't tell him was that his parents only had one spare room and they seemed to be under the impression that Greg and Mycroft were dating. Not wanting to cause a scene and ruin the Lestrade's weekend, both Greg and Mycroft went along with it. However, the fighting over who got what side of the ancient bed, or the pillow fight, did much to change their minds.

Their friendship changed both of them, but strangely kept them the same, as if they sort of balanced enough other.

So when Greg found he had some extra time he decided to dash over and pick Mycroft up, rather than wait for him at the theatre as arrange. He let himself in, shouting up for his best friend.

'If you've got a bloke over then shout and I'll come back in half an hour.'

The only sound was the running of the bath upstairs. Greg sighed and started to climb them, 'I finished early so I thought I'd pick you up and we could grab a quick drink before...'

The carpet under his feet was sodden and he smelled something that was all too familiar to a homocide detective.

'Mycroft?' he called more softly. When he got no response he drew his handgun and reached for the door handle.

And it hit him all at once, the running water, the red of blood and the figure in the bath. He was on his knees, his gun skittling away across the tiles, hauling Mycroft's pale body out of the water with one arm as he fumbled for his mobile with the other.

'No. No Mycroft. Not again!'

 


	2. Chapter 2

There was a rapid click of running heels and then a flurry of scarves and overwhelming perfume as Greg was cornered by Mycroft's mother, and a moment later by his father. They had been brought to London by Anthea, who followed behind them at a slightly slower pace, her eyes narrowed in dislike of the two elderly people in front of her. Greg knew her reasons and couldn't blame her.

'Well?' Violet Holmes demanded.

'He's in recovery. They won't let me in because I'm not family.'

Violet didn't ask anything, she just powered on, Siger trailing gormlessly behind her, already shouting at the nearest nurse demanding answers. Anthea just looked at Greg, and shook her head.

'He won't want them there.'

'He doesn't want any of us there,' Greg snapped, more loudly than he intended, 'The fact that he did this is a pretty good indicator, wouldn't you say.'

Anthea sighed, but before she had a chance to say anything, Mycroft's parents reappeared, flanked by security guards that most certainly weren't wearing the hospital uniform. He smiled slightly.

'I could kiss you.'

'Please don't. Now go and see him. Whether he wants you to or not.'

'What about them?' he asked quietly, with a head jerk in the direction of the elder Holmes.'

'I'll take care of it.'

Greg didn't need to be told twice. He practically ran down the corridor where he was greeted by the same doctor who had refused to speak to him before. Much to Greg's surprise the man apologised and started to explain how Mycroft had to have surgery this time to repair tendon and artery damage and three blood transfusions.

The only two things Greg from the brief description was that Mycroft had been in the water a long time, and that he had been very serious about what he'd been doing.

'Can I see him now?'

An unwilling nod and a hand gesture and Greg shot past. But then he stopped at the door, uncertain and afraid, remembering the last time he had seen Mycroft like this about six years ago. He still woke up sometimes with that image in his head, of Mycroft slumped on the flood of his shower, a blade in his hand and the water beating off an empty bottle of scotch beside him.

Slowly he opened the door into the dimly lit room, but it took him a moment to focus on the figure on the bed. And when he did he didn't recognise it at all as the Mycroft he knew. This man wasn't just pale, he was grey, his neatly dressed and repaired wrists extened far further than Greg had been prepared for, but still allowed an IV in each arm, one of them was carefully taped to prevent it becoming dislodged, but clearly the site of the transfusion. The other had a large clear bag attached to it.

Mycroft was laying only slightly raised, his eyes closed and his usually immaculate hair falling over his forehead. Greg pushed it back into place and was startled at how how Mycroft's skin felt compared to what he had been expecting. And then he sighed and moved the chair from the corner to the side of the bed and sat down, smoothing the corners of the yellow blanket that did nothing to compliment Mycroft's complexion, and watched the impossibly slow rise and fall of his chest.

Eventually another nurse came in and did some checks before changing the IV.

As the door closed and the room was filled by the click of the IV connector, Mycroft spoke, his words slurred slightly and roughened by his dry mouth so that Greg couldn't make them out at first. He lifted a plastic cup of water so Mycroft could sip, even though most of the water dripped down his chin. It was only then that Mycroft tried again, still without opening his eyes.

'Why does it say 'walk the duck?'

Despite himself Greg smiled at Mycroft's desire to know the why of alll things.

'Sleep, Myc,' he whispered, knowing Mycroft couldn't hear him, 'And we'll talk about this tomorrow.'

 

#

 

Mycroft woke in the dull light of the room, opening his unwilling eyes. Unwilling because he knew he would have failed. Again.

But then the soft sigh of another breath startled him, and he slowly registered the dark shape in the chair beside him, no more than shadows, long legs splayed before them, head tilted back, mouth open. It was one of the profiles he knew best in the world.

And the last one he had ever wanted to disappoint like this.

Mycroft squeezed his eyes closed, refusing to have tears in them when Gregory woke up.


	3. Chapter 3

'You're angry with me.'

The voice cut through the silence and should have been enough to startle Greg if he wasn't already awake and expecting it.

'Yeah.'

'You shouldn't have been there.'

'I'm glad I was.'

'I didn't want you there. You weren't supposed to be-'

'Shut up!' Greg was on his feet, glaring down at Mycroft, 'I'm glad I was. Because if I wasn't then you'd be...you can't keep doing this, Myc. I can't take it.'

'It wasn't about you.'

'No. It was about you. It's always about you. I just pick up the bloody pieces every time you fall apart.'

Greg dropped his gaze and the silence took over for long moments, and then the DI spoke.

'You promised.'

'I know-'

'Last time you promised you wouldn't do it again. Your parents are beside themselves, Sherlock is like a madman right now and I don't know what to tell anyone anymore.'

'Tell them they aren't needed.'

'Needed?' Greg frowned, 'Needed?'

'Superfluous to requirements.'

'You're a fucking asshole, do you know that?'

Finally he had Mycroft's attention.

'You want to be needed?' Greg demanded.

'I'm always needed,' Mycroft's voice was low, 'Everyone needs Mycroft Holmes. Look after your brother, Mycroft, solve this diplomatic crisis, Mycroft, smile for the birdie, Mycroft.' he turned his face away, 'Everyone  _needs_  me. Always there, picking up the pieces, making everything right again. Fine to wheel out for a party or an international crisis, but that's all, isn't it? Everyone  _needs_ me, but that's not the same as  _wanting_ me.'

Greg took a step closer to the bed, but Mycroft wasn't finished.

'No one  _wants_  me for me. It's all a puppet act.'

'I want you.'

Greg didn't realise he'd said the words aloud until Mycroft turned his head to look at him. Not the usual expression of mild amusement, but that deep, intense look he sometimes had.

'What?'

'I want you,' Greg repeated, louder this time, emboldened by adrenaline and too long keeping it to himself, 'I want you and I need you.'

'Gregory-'

'Shut up! I'm probably never going to say this again, so please, let me get it out now. I want you. I have for....fuck this is ridiculous. Please forget anything I say now because it's all...I want you. I mean, I really want you. All the good stuff in my life is because I know you. You are my best friend and I need you, but I want you too, just for you. No strings, no expectations, just you.And I want to be enough that you stay.'

'Gregory, I-'

'Don't. Just let it be and don't.'

'You never said.'

'I figured that if a man as smart as you was oblivious then it was because he was chosing to ignore it,' Greg hung his head, 'And that's fine. And tomorrow we'll pretend I didn't just declare my love and we'll go on as always.'

'You-'

'It's fine!' Greg paused, dropping his voice before speaking again, 'Honestly, it's okay. It's not going to be weird. I just...forget it. Please.'

Mycroft watched the changing expression on Greg's face and just nodded.

'Okay.'


	4. Chapter 4

They didn't talk about it. That wasn't what they did. Mycroft was pretending that Greg hadn't said anything at all, so that's what Greg did too. 

And then Mycroft was allowed home.

Greg took the day off so he could drive Mycroft back, more to save him the indignity of being delivered by an ambulance or having to ask his parents for help. He could have ordered one of his fancy cars, but somehow Greg knew that a lift back in Greg's old Honda was the right thing to restore normality for Mycroft.

Mycroft glared at the floor.

'What happened to my carpet?'

'You bled out on it, remember?' Greg narrowed his eyes, 'And if you don't like it then take it up with Anthea because she picked it.'

Greg didn't mention that he didn't like the new carpet either.

'Your phone is charged if you need it and I ordered you a full shop, so there's plenty to eat. John said he'd call around to change your dressings so you don't have to go out and Anthea has juggled your whole schedule so you have a couple of weeks off.' Greg shuffled his feet and avoided looking directly at Mycroft, 'Anything else you need?'

'Will you stay?'

Greg blinked in surprise, 'Of course.'

'Thank you,' Mycroft's voice was barely a whisper.

'Is my room made up or-?'

'With me.'

'Myc...?'

'I don't...I mean, if you don't want...it's fine. Forget it.'

Greg shrugged, 'It's not like we've never shared a bed before.'

'You're a clingy drunk.'

'Can you blame me for wanting to wrap around- sorry. Sorry.' Greg backed off a step at Mycroft's stricken expression, 'I'm not going to molest you in your sleep, I promise. I'm...I'm going to get changed, okay?'

Mycroft nodded and turned away.

It took Greg almost fifteen minutes before he felt ready to face Mycroft again, and he was surprised when he walked into the bedroom to find Mycroft still fully dressed.

'You alright?'

Mycroft turned to him then, his eyes too bright, 'I can't do the buttons!'

Greg took a deep breath as he realised what Mycroft meant and then he nodded, 'Do you want me to...'?'

'Please.'

Nodding again he stepped forward and, avoiding eye contact, started to unbutton Mycroft's shirt, 'Not the first time I've undressed you either.'

'Gregory!'

'You're a sloppy drunk.'

There was the twitch of a smile on Mycroft's face then as Greg opened his belt.

'Who dressed you anyway?'

'Anthea and a rather embarrassed nurse.'

'That girl deserves a pay rise.'

'She already earns more than I do.'

'And she's worth every penny,' Greg stepped back, 'Can you manage your pyjamas yourself?'

Mycroft nodded.

'Okay, then I'm going to double check the doors and I'll see you in a few minutes.'

Greg deliberately lingered downstairs for longer than necessary, and when he finally made his way back to Mycroft's room the politician was in the bathroom, so Greg climbed into bed and closed his eyes as he waited for Mycroft to come back.

#

'What are you doing?' Greg opened his eyes to find himself inches away from Mycroft as the other man monopolised Greg's pillow.

'You're on my pillow.'

'You have pillows on your side.'

'You on my side.'

Greg rolled his eyes, 'For fuck sake. Fine!' But instead of getting out of bed and walking around he lifted himself up and swung one leg and then the other over Mycroft to reach the other side of the bed. It would have been an impressive action if his elbow hadn't buckled and he almost headbutted Mycroft in the process.

'Smooth, Gregory.'

'Fuck off and go to sleep, Myc.' Greg tugged the cover closer around himself.

He didn't let on that he listened for the change in Mycroft's breathing to indicate that he was really asleep, and he knew he'd never admit to anyone that he didn't settle properly the whole night. Just in case.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg was finishing making breakfast when Mycroft came into the kitchen, slightly self consciously. He was still dressed in his pyjamas. Greg smiled and set a cup of tea down in front of him.

'I need to nip home to get some stuff, is there anything you want while I'm out?'

Mycroft shook his head, looking down at the cup in silence.

'Alright, we'll I'm going to have a shower and then head out, give me a shout if you need me.'

When he returned twenty minutes later Mycroft was still sitting at the table, the tea and the toast untouched before him.

'What's wrong? Do you want something else?'

Mycroft shook his head.

'Mycroft? You need to use actual words, I'm not a mind reader.'

Mycroft mumbled something that Greg couldn't make out.

'What?'

'I CAN'T PICK IT UP!' Mycroft roared, sweeping his arm sideways sending the cup crashing to the floor at Greg's feet.

'Well why didn't you say that?'

'Because I shouldn't have to!'

'So you expect me to just know these things?'

'I expected to not be here!'

Greg rocked backwards, but Mycroft's expression was calm, his eyes focused on Greg's so sharply that Greg was uncomfortable.

'That's a really shitty thing to say, Myc.'

'Would you rather I lied to protect your  _feelings?'_

'I'd rather you stopped being such a fucking arsehole all the damn time.' he pulled his coat of the back of the chair, 'I'm going out.'

Mycroft didn't respond and it was all Greg could do not to run straight back to him.

 

#

 

Mycroft was sitting at the window of his study when he heard Greg coming back, wincing as he heard Greg throw his keys onto the mahogany table in the hall. He followed the sound of muttered swearing to the kitchen, where Greg was unpacking bags.

'I'm sorry,' he said from the door way, startling Greg.

Greg stopped, his back to Mycroft and lowered his head, 'I'm sorry. I should have...the movement will come back though, right? I mean, that's what the surgeons said.'

Mycroft nodded, even though he knew Greg couldn't see him, 'It did last time.'

There was a pause, and then Greg started to rummage in the bag again, 'I got a few things that should help make life a bit easier. But you have to promise not to yell at me.'

'I make no such promises.'

'Thought you'd say that,' Greg took a deep breath and turned around, holding up a lightweight plastic sippee cup with two handles.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, 'You bought me a sippee cup?' he hissed.

'Not just any sippee cup,' Greg turned it around to reveal the logo, 'An MI6 sippee cup.'

There was a moment of complete stunned silenced in the kitchen as Mycroft stared at the cup, then he made the mistake of looking at Greg, who was so nervous that Mycroft felt his mouth tug into a slight smile, torn between the thoughtful gesture and the absurdity of it.

'And I hope you like tapas,' Greg said, tipping out a massive selection of cheeses and meats, 'Because that's what we are living off until you can use a knife or fork again.'


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this one. It's sort of breaking my heart

Mycroft had been fourteen the first time it happened. That was the year he went to school for the first time. It was the year he was introduced to the world outside of his own family and he was woefully unprepared for it.

Until that year Mycroft had studied as he pleased, reading on any subject that took his fancy at any time. Rules were virtually non-existent and both of his parents encouraged the curiosity of their children and facilitated their scattershot interests.

That was the year things changed. That was the year Sherlock shut down, retreating into his own mind. It was the year that Eurus was sent away. The year the house burned down. It was the year that his parents decided their children needed more than they could give them.

And so Mycroft and Sherlock were sent away to school, only returning for the holidays, during which each brother would lock himself away in his own room, only occasionally coming out for meals.

As the oldest brother and the only other person in the world that Sherlock knew, it became Mycroft's job to look after him. This responsibility was drilled into him by both of his parents before they left, and again in every letter they wrote. 

But, suddenly exposed to the vastness of the world and the potential it offered, and still burning with an anger that was truly frightening in such a young child, Sherlock was wild. And Mycroft was his keeper.

Mycroft was the only person Sherlock even pretended to listen to, and even that was only so he could throw insults at him. There was barely an hour that went by without another pupil, or as the months wore on, a teacher, coming to speak with Mycroft, to beg him to do something to control his brother. 

It didn't matter to anyone what Mycroft was doing. His own studies started to slip, earning him reprimands from the same teachers that demanded he deal with Sherlock at all hours of the day. The time he spent sorting out Sherlock's mess meant he rarely had a second of his own, never had a chance to speak to his classmates or join their activities and so the concept of friendship remained elusive.

His weight plummeted sharply in those first few months, to the point where even Sherlock looked alarmed when he walked in on Mycroft getting changed that first weekend of the Christmas holidays. 

By that stage Mycroft could no longer even bear to look at himself. What had once been a round stomach was now a concave hollow, translucent skin stretched far too tightly over sharp hipbones, every single rib visible. His hair, which had always been thick and soft was now dry and came out when he combed it. There were days when he his hands shook so much that his writing was illegible and he couldn't remember the last time he had slept for more than an hour or two at a time.

His parents didn't notice.

Over those hateful two weeks of the holidays they asked banal questions about school, assuming, in the way that only two self absorbed and oblivious people did, that both of their sons were excelling in every sphere of scholastic life. Of course they were on every team, in every club and had a positive army of friends. Sherlock was cooed over because his end of term report, regardless of three pages detailing the issues Sherlock had and the chaos he trailed behind him, had mentioned, right at the very bottom of the last page, that he was more settled than he had been at the start of term.

By contrast Mycroft's own report was painfully short, most of his teachers barely seeing enough of him to know anything about it. 'Polite' seemed to feature quite heavily in the brief comments. So it was really nothing more than a list of grades which his mother pursed her lips over.

'Really Mycroft, you must try harder!' she chastised over the dinner table.

Later, alone in his room, Mycroft closed his eyes, the exhaustion of the last few months, of his whole, short life, finally catching up with him and suddenly he couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't even breathe without a pain in his chest. He didn't want to.

And then the sudden thought, the first positive thought he's had for months, that realization that he didn't have to.

He went and ran the bath.


	7. Chapter 7

Greg had been trying to find a polite way to bring the subject up, but after skirting around it all day, followed by a full twenty minutes of sitting beside a silent Mycroft who was doing a very poor job of prentending he was watching the film Greg had put on, Greg couldn't hold back any more.

'Myc,' he said slowly, 'There's no easy way to tell you this...'

Mycroft turned to him, alarm flickering across his features for a split second to be replaced with annoyance that just about covered how uncomfortable he was.

'Gregory, please refrain. You have made you feelings clear and while I am flattered-'

'You are really starting to smell.'

#

Mycroft turned away from Greg as he struggled out of his trousers.

'I do not need your help, Gregory.'

'Oh really? And how are you going to wash your hair? What's left of it.'

At this Mycroft whirled around again, unleashing the full power of his infamous glare, the effect only slightly ruined by the fact his trousers were around his knees. Greg smiled at him and then just as suddenly stopped.

And stared.

Mycroft's expression remained defiant, but Greg knew him well enough to know that was just a cover for how he was really feeling. He tried not to stare, but he couldn't help it. He's seen Mycroft in various stages of undress over the years, and yet somehow he had never really noticed-

'Don't stare, Gregory. It's rude,' Mycroft stepped out of his trousers and bent to pick them off the floor at the same time as Greg did.

'Sorry,' Greg stepped up after narrowly avoiding a collision, Mycroft's trousers in his hands.

Mycroft gave him a long look and started to ease himself out of his jumper.

'You have questions, so ask them now and be done with it.'

Greg glanced down at the white lines that criss-crossed the very tops of Mycroft's thighs, high enough that even with boxers on they wouldn't be visible, but today, in the shorter briefs Mycroft was wearing, they were clear to see.

The only thing Greg could tell about them was that they were old, decades old maybe. He'd seen enough injuries and enough scars to be able to tell that there were no new ones on Mycroft's legs. Not that it made it any better. 

He rubbed his free hand over his face and through his hair, 'I have no idea where to start, Myc.'

'Shall I start for you?' there was a coldness in Mycroft's voice that was all too familiar to Greg and he tightened his jaw.

'Don't talk to me like I'm one of your minions.'

'I wouldn't dream of it,' Mycroft drawled. Then he blinked slowly, pursed his lips for a moment and decided to just get it over with, 'The femoral artery runs the length of the inner leg under many layers of tissue. It's rather hard to damage as a result. There are, however, some places where it's easier to access, such as in the groin region. It took a rather deep slash but it did the job.' Mycroft's smile twisted into something ugly, 'I thought I was being clever. Slitting your wrists is effective, but easy to spot. In a bath full of blood no one thinks to look at your legs. Unless of course that someone is Sherlock.' his eyes narrowed, 'He was days away from turning eight but he was smart enough to tell my parents and the paramedics. As a result I ended up in intensive care and then it was decided that I should not return to school for the next term, which was something I suppose. However, I had not anticipated that a secure unit would be seen as the better short term option.'

Greg bit his lip to stop himself saying something sentimental or trying to be comforting as he knew Mycroft would not appreciate it.

'My parents, by this stage were two for three when it came to incarcerated children. Of course, the only person I had tried to kill was myself, but that's beside the point.'

Mycroft dropped his jumper onto the bed and was now standing in front of Greg in just his briefs.

'Of course, by that point the damage had been done and taking a blade became something of a habit.'

Greg nodded, he'd heard this before too, many times, 'Outlet for the pain?'

Mycroft's face darkened, 'Don't be so pedestrian, Gregory. I expected more from you than pop-psychology,' Mycroft took a breath to calm himself, 'It simply became a reminder that I could do it, if I chose, I could...leave. If I went just a little bit deeper or a little bit higher...' there was a vulnerability then that Greg wasn't expecting, 'And it lasted just until I was seventeen.'

'What happened when you were seventeen?' Greg's voice cracked as he spoke.

'I realised I was gay. And so did all the other boys at school.'

That Greg could understand. Coming to terms with his own sexuality had been difficult enough without the fear and hysteria that surrounded homosexuality in the eighties. At least he'd been able to keep his preferences out of general knowledge or the kids in his school would have beaten him senseless on a daily basis. But Mycroft, at his fancy boarding school where everyone knew everyone and all their families were friends...'

'I think almost every parent of my peer group thought it their duty to speak to my mother about their concerns regarding her son's deviancy and how they didn't want it to hurt their precious boys.'

'Bitches,' Greg hissed.

'Yes. But nothing compared to their sons. Rich and privileged, but not terribly bright or creative with their thinking. So not only was I known as being Sherlock's brother, which was a trial in itself as I'm sure you can imagine, I was also still seen as the new boy, I had no friends, I was more intelligent than everyone else and my previous...indiscretion was well known. It didn't take long for the rumours to start that I had been hospitalised to attempt to cure me of my sexuality.'

Greg opened his mouth to say something but Mycroft held up a hand.

'Don't, there is nothing you can say that I haven't already thought. Needless to say there is only so many beatings, and that was just from my father, taunts, meetings with a plethora of psychiatrists and doctors and ministers who all wanted to fix me, only so many times one can tolerate other people leaving the room when you enter, so many times the room falls silent when you walk into it. The strange thing is,' Mycroft shook his head, looking into the middle distance as if seeing it all replayed again, 'I think I could have coped with that.'

'But you didn't?'

Mycroft shook his head, 'I'd expressed a desire to work in politics and diplomacy. Several highly placed associates of my father's made clear, in no uncertain terms, that career was no longer an option for me.'

'And you at you now,' Greg tried to smile to lighten the mood and bring Mycroft back to himself a little. Angry Mycroft was better than this broken Mycroft.

'Yes,' Mycroft looked down at his bandaged wrists, 'Look at me now.'

In the silence that followed Greg wanted nothing more than to step forward and put his arms around Mycroft. But instead he threw Mycroft's trousers onto the bed.

'Come on, let's get you into the shower.'

'I despise showers.'

'Yeah, well I'm not too fond of your bath right now.'

Greg strode through to start the water and only just caught Mycroft's sigh.

'Neither am I.'


	8. Chapter 8

After his second hospital stay Mycroft had no desire to return, which he knew for certain would be the only outcome should he attempt something...drastic while he was being watched so closely.

Or not that closely as it turned out.

Oh, everyone's attention turned to him when he so much as picked up a butter knife, and his parents went so far as to physically remove the door to his bedroom and the bathroom, allowing them to monitor him at all times and striping him of what little dignity he had left. 

But because everyone was so busy watching that he wasn't hurting himself, no one was paying any attention at all to the things he wasn't doing.

Like eating.

At first he hadn't wanted to. Hadn't been able to stomach anything at all. In those first few weeks he lost more weight than he should have, far too quickly. But he spent most of his time in bed, drained of energy and long past caring about anything beyond his open doorway.

It was late at night, the creak of footsteps in the hallway, the pause of his father at the door, looking in to check on Mycroft, and then slowly moving away again. Mycroft shifted in his bed, his newly sharp hip bone digging into the ancient springs. And the realisation came to him suddenly.

They could stop him hanging himself in the bathroom, but they couldn't force him to eat.

His mind was already rapidly calculating how long it would take based on his current weight and intake, his mobility levels, his willpower....

A month. Just a few weeks of existing on water and medication, less if his body gave up under the stress. A small thrill ran through him at the thought of a heart attack, sudden. Gone. 

He could do it. No one was watching what he was eating, his rapid weight loss had proven that. Mycroft bit his lip and turned his face into his pillow in relief at his new plan. The thought of escaping finally threatening to bring tears to his eyes. A few weeks and he could be gone. It could be over and he could be free.

#

He wasn't.

The found out.

That was his third hospital stay.


	9. Chapter 9

Greg had been well aware of Mycroft's issues with food. Initially because Sherlock tended to make gleeful comments any time Mycroft gained weight, which always resulted in Mycroft following it up with a rapid weight loss that left him looking grey and exhausted.

At first Greg didn't think it was any of his business, but that before he started to spend time with Mycroft and noticed how concious the man was about what he ate. The first time they had lunch together Mycroft ordered a salad and barely picked at it for the hour they were sitting there which made Greg feel self concious about his own cheese laden dish.

The next time they had lunch Greg picked the place and took Mycroft to one of his favourite cafes near the yard where everything was fried in copious amounts of lard. It was a popular place for the officers coming off the night shift, but Mycroft had looked so horrified that all Greg could do was laugh. Watching Mycroft genteelly eat a sausage and egg bap with a knife and fork was still one of his favourite memories.

After that they fell into a routine, when Greg hosted he chose, and when Mycroft hosted Greg got used to avacado salad and kale soups so long as they had a nice bread selection. Over the years his eating had become healthier and, in a different way, so had Mycroft's.

Mycroft still watched his weight obsessively, but the rapid gains and losses had stopped and when dessert was suggested Mycroft no longer declined with a longing glance at the trolley.

However exercise was a different matter. Greg could never understand the point of just running for the sake of it, and Mycroft couldn't wrap his head around why half the population regarded football as some kind of religion.

He had noticed since he started to stay with Mycroft was reverting to his old ways that Greg had thought he'd left behind years ago and he was trying to work out how to put a stop to it without it being obvious. It had started with restocking the fridge but Mycroft was starting to notice his efforts and eating less and less of the meals that Greg would prepare him.

'Something wrong with your dinner?' Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head but didn't say anything. Trying to tamp down his frustration with Mycroft's refusal to speak unless he forced to, Greg put down on his own fork and pushed his plate away.

He did this every time Mycroft refused food for the next few days until Mycroft swept both plates off the table in anger.

'That is childish. I'm a grown man and can manage my own diet. I don't need you telling me what to eat.'

'Someone has to.'

Mycroft looked away, his cheeks colouring slightly and Greg closed his eyes, cursing his own stupidity.

'They have been telling you, haven't they?' he took a deep breath, 'When you see your counsellor that's one of the things they talk about, isn't it?'

Mycroft still didn't speak.

They'd skirted around this topic in the past, only once or twice though, and only after a few too many drinks.

'That's part of the deal this time, isn't it?' Greg asked, 'It's why they let you out when they did.'

'It's always been part of the deal.' Mycroft sneered, still refusing to look at Greg.

'So they make you promise to take your medication, go to your sessions, promise not to try and kill yourself again and eat.'

The only response was a tightening of Mycroft's jaw.

'But you've been eating better for years now, this isn't-'

'But I'm not able to do anything to work it off again.'

Greg was silent as he thought about this, unwilling to give a response that would cause Mycroft to retreat back into himself now that he was finally speaking about it again.

'So how..how does it work then? Do you have...I dunno, meal plans or something?'

Mycroft twitched slighty and took a long time to answer, 'I have a minimum requirement and I have to record everything.'

'...and so all these years when we've been....when I made you eat more or eat what I wanted....it was...?'

'Above my lower limit so everyone was happy, and....I could run off the excess. No, don't look at me like that. It was all very carefully calculated. And it meant I could...indulge to an extent.'

Greg didn't voice his thoughts on how unhealthy that sounded, but then he'd never been in Mycroft's position. Mycroft Holmes lived his entire life with careful precision.

'So...' he said slowly, 'Since I've been here and cooking I've been making you eat more?'

He waited for Mycroft to speak, but the silence was answer enough.

'Myc...you barely eat anything. Surely it can't be that much over, even if you aren't running or anything at the minute.'

'It's too much.'

'I would argue that it's really not.'

'Well fortunately that decision is not yours to make.'

Greg's anger flared, 'You're in no fit state to make it!'

Mycroft stood up to leave, but Greg was faster and pushed him back down into his seat more roughly than he intended. Mycroft blinked up at him in shock, Greg had never been physical with him before.

'I'm not as stupid as I look, you know!' Greg shouted, 'I know you tried to starve yourself to death when cutting into your arteries didn't work, and I know it was years ago but it never really goes away. You think I don't that? Do you really think I'm not smart enough to understand that?'

Mycroft didn't respond and Greg returned from the sideboard and poured them each a large measure of scotch, Mycroft's into his two handled cup, and slid it across to Mycroft.

'What's this?' Mycroft curled his lip.

'About fifty calories. Cheers!' Greg lifted his glass to his lips and drained it one go. He was in the process of pouring another measure when Mycroft carefully lifted his own cup and he noticed that Mycroft was smiling, 'I don't think is funny.'

'I'm drinking forty year old scotch out of a sippee cup.'

Greg tried not to smile back but couldn't help it. Despite Mycroft's coldness and reputation as being standoffish, and despite the conversation they had just had, Mycroft had always been able to make him smile.

He looked at Mycroft over his glass, 'I suppose you expect me to clean that up?'

Mycroft made a great show of considering this, 'Yes. Yes I rather think I do.'

Greg shook his head, 'You're a real cock, do you know that?'

'Yes.'


	10. Chapter 10

It was with some surprise that Mycroft realised the bottle of scotch was empty and started to suggest opening another, but Greg wasn't drunk enough to think that was a good. But he was drunk enough that it took quite a while and mutual support for him and Mycroft to make it upstairs.

Neither of them was coordinated enough to pull on pyjamas so they stripped of what they could and took turns to use the bathroom. Greg shook his head and moved Mycroft's sedatives out of reach.

'I don't think you should take those tonight.'

'Are you trying to keep me up all night, Detective Inspector?'

'No, I think you've had a skin full of very expensive scotch and I don't want to have to take you to the hospital if you wash that down with a handful of sedatives.'

'Don't you want me to sleep at all?'

'Yes, but I want you to wake up again.'

'I always wake up,' Mycroft sighed and the mood shifted slightly to something more sinister.

Greg shook his head, 'Let me get you into bed, Myc.'

'Are you propositioning me, Gregory?'

'I tried that before. Didn't work out too well, remember?'

Mycroft lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes, 'Maybe I've changed my mind.'

'Maybe you're drunk and horny.'

Mycroft made a rude noise, 'I do not get horny!'

'Well I do, so...just stop this before one of us says something we'll regret.'

Greg left Mycroft where he was and went to take his turn in the bathroom, and hide Mycroft's sedatives inside the cupboard that Mycroft couldn't open yet with his still limited dexterity. When turned to walk back into the bedroom Mycroft was standing right behind him.

'Jesus, Myc! Where you watching me piss?'

Mycroft shook his head but didn't say anything, he just continued to stare at Greg as if he had something to say but couldn't work out the words, which was fairly typical of Mycroft when he'd had too much to drink, and the reason why he limited himself to a single drink at work functions and only really let himself go when he with Greg.

Greg washed his hands and turned back to Mycroft to steer him back to bed, but Mycroft resisted for a second and continued to look at Greg in the same way and for some reason Greg's heart started to race and he wished he could more space between them before he did something stupid.

'Please don't look at me like that.'

'Why not?'

'You know why.'

Mycroft's only response was to edge very slightly closer to Greg and that was all it took for Greg to lift his hand to the back of Mycroft's neck and kiss him, at first soft and exploring, but then he was pressed fully against Mycroft and the kiss grew more intense.

Greg pulled away sharply, putting space between him and Mycroft.

'I should clean the mess we left downstairs,' he said, making his excuse to sidestep Mycroft and leave the room.

He stood in the kitchen, gripping the counter and trying to compose himself.

Well he'd fucked everything up now, hadn't he? Greg squeezed his eyes shut. He was a grown man, he wasn't going to stand in a dark kitchen crying.

But he couldn't go upstairs again either. Mycroft had made his feeling very clear back at the hospital. He didn't want Greg. And Greg had just thrown away their friendship because he couldn't keep his hands to himself when Mycroft was too drunk and too medicated to know what he wanted. But he would remember, because Mycroft remembered everything and he would be very angry when he sobered up.

All of Greg's clothes were upstairs, and even in his current state he had too much dignity to flee the house in the middle of the night wearing nothing but his boxers and his overcoat. He'd get arrested for flashing and the lads at work would never let him forget it.

He scrubbed at his too hot eyes and went to open that second bottle of scotch after all.


	11. Chapter 11

'Remind me again why I'm here,' Greg shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable in his tux.

'You always come to these things,' Mycroft replied, looking incredibly at ease in the luxury surroundings of the Smallwood manor, 'You're about the only thing that makes these events tolerable.'

On any other occasion Greg would have been inwardly thrilled and would have replayed the compliment over and over in his head later that evening. But since he had kissed Mycroft he'd felt awkward.

They hadn't spoken about it, neither of them admitting that it actually happened and since Mycroft was ignoring it then Greg did too. The morning after had been slightly strained as they both avoided making eye contact over their coffee, but by lunchtime they were conversing as normal.

'Okay, so what's the plan?' Greg asked, surveying the room full of more or less every person of importance in the Greater London area.

Although Mycroft was still technically excused from work, he hadn't been able to get out of this particular soiree particularly because of his notable absence.

'Put rumours of my death to rest.'

'That's not funny, Mycroft.'

Mycroft shrugged, 'It's a bit funny.'

'You are a sick man,' Greg said and followed Mycroft through the crowd.

#

Greg got caught up in talking to Lady Smallwood and lost track of Mycroft, who he'd last seen having a tense conversation with the new head of MI6.

'Excuse me,' he stopped one of Mycroft's colleagues whom he vaguely knew from these sort of gathering, 'Have you seen Mycroft?'

'I believe he was in the bathroom,' the other man said with a smirk, or at least on anyone else's face it would have been a smirk, but there was a particular type of person who always looked like that.

Greg sighed and headed for the bathroom, knowing that Mycroft might well need a hand. His dexterity was improving, but he still struggled with things like buttons and zips.

Pushing the door open Greg stopped and stared.

Mycroft was leaning back against the wall, head tilted back and eyes closed while one of the hired waiters was on his knees, Mycroft's cock in his mouth.

Greg closed his eyes and backed out the door, trying to ignore the soft moan he head from inside.

Now he knew why that wanker had been smirking.

#

'Ah, Gregory,' Mycroft approached him ten minutes later looking calm and unruffled. Greg on the other hand had managed to down three large scotch and one glass of wine in that time and was feeling decidedly less calm, 'Are you ready to go?'

'Get all you came for?' Greg asked, knocking back the last mouthful of his wine.

'Yes, I did, thank you,' Mycroft smiled benignly as he steered Greg towards the waiting car.

Once inside Mycroft gave directions for his house, but Greg shook his head.

'If you could just drop me at my flat,' he said, making an effort to keep his voice steady.

Mycroft frowned, clearing noting something was wrong but unable to quite pinpoint what.

'But-'

'I'd rather go home, Mycroft.'

'What if I require you assistance?'

'And what would you ever need me for?' the bitterness crept in before Greg could stop it.

'I...I may help with my trousers,' Mycroft admitted, and if Greg wasn't feeling so sorry for himself he would have seen how much it pained Mycroft to have to make that admission of reliance. Instead Greg curled his lip.

'You managed to get them open just fine this evening.'

Whatever reaction he'd expected from Mycroft it wasn't the shrug that the other man gave.

'I thought that was you at the door,' he said, looking out the window for a second.

'That's it? That's all you are going to say?'

'Yes. I don't see what more there is to say.'

Greg stared at him for a second in disbelief, 'Half an hour into that party and you have some complete stranger sucking you off in the bathroom and you don't think there's anything to say about that?'

'Well, it take rather long that I anticipated,' Mycroft mused, 'Some people are more difficult to persuade than others.'

'I...what?'

Mycroft finally turned to face Greg again, 'He is part of a terrorist cell, he was there tonight to gain information. Let's just say it was a trade that was beneficial to us both.'

'You actually gave him information in return for a blow job?'

'Of course not!' Mycroft snarled, 'But he thinks I did and right as we speak he is being arrested and his cell disbanded.'

In the silence that followed Mycroft just sighed and shook his head.

'Sex is a weapon, Gregory. One I am most accomplished with.'

That stung because Greg knew it was true. When he'd first met Mycroft he'd assumed the cold man only ever knew the feel of his own hand, and had been surprised to discover that not only was Mycroft very open to the idea of sex, but the string of partners he'd had over the years had been something of a sock at first.

It had hurt, that much Greg could at least admit to himself, to know that Mycroft shared a bed with someone different every other night. As his own feelings for Mycroft had grown the only way he had been able to tamp down the hurt and the red hot jealously was to remind himself that these were not relationships, few of Mycroft's bedfellows lasted more than a week or two and Mycroft generally treated them with barely controlled disdain. It didn't stop it hurting, but it made it easier to cope with. Knowing he was the only man Mycroft had no interest in sleeping with...well...that had been hard.

'You know what,' he said, shaking his head, suddenly feeling too exhausted to even be upset anymore, 'It doesn't matter. It's none of my business who you fuck.'

Mycroft pursed his lips in displeasure, 'Must you use such vulgar language.'

'Yes, I really fucking think I do.'

'Gregory...'

'Forget it,' he held up his hand.

'I do not wish to argue with you, Gregory.'

'We're not arguing.'

'So you'll come and help me?'

Greg actually laughed as Mycroft spoke, 'You're one manipulative bastard, do you know that?'

Mycroft nodded and turned back to the window so Greg couldn't see his expression.


	12. Chapter 12

Greg helped Mycroft change and made him a cup of tea before he took himself off to the spare room, earning a slight frown from Mycroft which was swiftly followed by a shake of the politician's head.

'Are you actually going to sulk?'

'I said I'd help you tonight, but from tomorrow you need to arrange for someone else to do that. I can't take anymore time off work for one, and for two I'm not your fucking skivvy.'

'Gregory-'

'And thirdly,' Greg spoke over him, not caring that he was shouting, 'I'm not going to keep sharing a bed with you.'

'I thought that's what you wanted.' Mycroft's mouth twisted unpleasantly.

Greg felt his hand curl into a fist and had to step away before he did something he would regret.

'Are you actually enjoying this?' he demanded incredulously, shocked that the Mycroft he thought he knew could be so cold.

'I don't-'

'I make a fucking fool of myself telling you how I feel in the hope that you might actually feel the same, or at the very least that it might remind you that someone fucking cares enough about you to want you to fucking live. And in return I have to sleep beside you in a bed you've shared with half the men in London, but I'm the only one who's not allows to bloody touch you! And you wonder why I think that's really fucked up? Christ Mycroft, I thought I meant more to you than that.'

'You do,' Mycroft took a step forward but Greg retreated another step back.

'Then stop doing this to me and just let me get over it without all these things confusing everything. It fucking hurts enough as it is without these bloody games of yours.'

Mycroft actually looked affronted.

'I'm not...I'd never do that-'

''Sex is a weapon,'' Greg repeated bitterly, 'Right?' his laugh was cold, 'I suppose since I'm never going to be on the receiving end then I should consider myself lucky, right? Isn't that how weapons usually work?'

'Gregory, you are being highly irrational,' Mycroft said in his infuriatingly calm tone, 'Perhaps we should discuss this another time when you haven't consumed so much alcohol.'

'Don't you dare bloody patronize me, Mycroft Holmes! I don't ever want to talk about this again. I didn't want to ever talk about it in the first place which I why I never said anything for all those years. But no, I had to open my fucking mouth and ruin everything, and now we're fighting about it and I don't even know why because I'm even angry at you.'

'Then why this outburst?' Mycroft looked genuinely confused and Greg softened, realising that Mycroft, with his limited social skills, probably didn't really understand why Greg was upset.

Greg sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.

'I'm angry at myself, Myc. I#m angry because I made things awkward, I'm angry because I kissed you when I shouldn't have, and I'm angry because I'm still humiliating myself getting upset when I have no right to be jealous.'

Mycroft blinked slowly, 'I'm sorry.'

It was so rare that Mycroft apologised to anyone that Greg was genuinely touched.

'Me too,' he replied, 'But...but I think it's for the best that I go back home tomorrow. I just...I think I need a bit of space to...to get past all of this if we have a hope of hell in staying friends.'

'And...and do we?'

'I hope so.'

Mycroft nodded, his confused and momentarily distraught expression giving way to a well practiced acceptance that was, for once,not laced with the usual brittle edge that normally accompanied it. It was an expression that few aside from Greg ever got to see.

'As do I,' he said and nodded, 'And of course I...I understand.'

Greg gave him a sad smile, unsure whether to be relieved or saddened or both.

'Night, Myc,' he said, smiling sadly at Mycroft before he left Myroft's bedroom.

'Goodnight, Gregory.'

As Greg climbed into the bed in the spare room he doubted either of them would sleep much that night.


	13. Chapter 13

Greg was just sitting down to his lunch when his desk phone rang. Sighing he picked it up.

'Lestrade.'

'Gregory this nurse is intolerable! I insist you get me a different one.'

Greg couldn't hold back the laugh that escaped, 'Myc, you've had her for three hours.'

'Yes, and she's already thrown out my coffee, offered to give me a sponge bath and tried to force me into incontinence under garments.'

'Why?'

There was a short silence before Mycroft spoke again, his voice now more hushed, 'Because I refused to let her....tend to my requirements.'

Greg bit his fist to stop from laughing again. Despite how funny he thought it was, he knew Mycroft well enough to know that the other man would find the whole situation distressing.

'She doesn't sound too bad.'

'She keeps looking and my dressings and making mewing sounds.'

That, Greg had to admit, was something he would find annoying too, and he had a much higher tolerance for these things than his best friend. But it seemed the best was yet to come.

'And she called me a 'wee pet'!' Mycroft snarled.

'How awful.'

'Are you laughing at me, Gregory?'

'...a bit,' Greg admitted.

'Well, I can assure you that this is not in the least bit amusing.'

'It kinda is though.'

'Fuck you!'

That silenced Greg for a moment. It was so rare for Mycroft to swear at all, and never the F word and certainly never at Greg.

'I'm sorry,' Mycroft apologised before Greg could respond, 'That was unacceptable.'

'It's okay,' Greg said, meaning it, and knowing that he would never tell Mycroft how sexy those words sounded in the politician's voice, 'I've said worse to you.'

'True. You can be rather vulgar when the mood strikes you. I suppose you are just a product of your socio-economic upbringing and so it's not really your fault.'

'Right, I'm going to hang up now and take my working class ass back to my lunch before it get's cold.'

'Eating at your desk is terribly bad for morale.'

'That's rich coming from you given that you rarely eat anywhere else.'

'Touche. At least tell me you are having something nutritious.'

'Um...well, it's got mushrooms, noodles, corn and a sort of soy sauce dressing.'

'Sounds divine. What's it's called.'

'A...a pot noodle.'

'I've never heard of it, but I shall endeavor to try it some time.'

Greg bit his lip and took a second to compose himself, 'Yeah, you should.'

After they hung up Greg laughed for a full five minutes before Mycroft's text came through.

'I just looked up a Pot Noodle. You are a disgusting man Gregory Lestrade. MH'

As the first conversation they'd had since Greg moved back home, it could have been so much worse. Maybe, he thought as he fished about in the bottom of the pot for the last bit of corn, they might actually be alright again.


	14. Chapter 14

Greg had returned to his own flat in order to put some space between himself and Mycroft, but in reality he saw and spoke to the other man just as much, if not more than he had before. Part of it was because Mycroft was his best friend, part of it was because, truthfully, he was completely in love the man, and some of it was guilt that he had left Mycroft in the care of someone else because he couldn't stand being so close to him all the time.

That didn't stop them texting constantly throughout the day, or Greg 'just happening' to be passing Mycroft's house at lunchtimes, or Mycroft 'accidentally' ordering too much dinner for one person each night.

Two weeks after Greg moved back home, he let himself into Mycroft's house with his set of keys, punching in the code to the alarm system, carrying the bag of groceries Mycroft had ordered and asked Greg to collect after work.

'Are you decent?'

'I certainly hope not!' Mycroft's answer came from his office down the hall. Greg left the bag in the kitchen and went through to where Mycroft was sitting watching his monitor, a slight smirk on his face.

'You watching dirty films?'

'Not yet,' Mycroft replied, 'Sherlock and Dr Watson are having a fight.'

Greg immediately pulled a chair around so he could watch too. His eyes widening at the scene taking place in the living room of Baker Street.

'Christ you could cut that sexual tension with a knife. Do we have sound.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes and clicked a button on his laptop, 'Of course.'

Immediately the sound of John yelling at Sherlock that he was an inconsiderate dick filled the small study.

'How long have they been at it?'

'About twenty minutes.'

Ten minutes later John announced he was going for some air and slammed the door behind him. Both Greg and Mycroft sighed with disappointment.

'How long do you think he will be away for?'

'Is it still raining outside?'

'It was when I came in.'

'Then about fifteen minutes. Just long enough to put together some dinner. Did you collect my order?'

'I did,' Greg said standing and walking with Mycroft to the kitchen, 'But I have no fucking idea what half the things are.'

Mycroft smirked, 'Well, those strange green things are called 'vegetables'.'

'Very funny,' Greg reached into the bag, 'So what's this spiky bastard called then?'

'Romanesco. It's a type of brassica.'

'I don't care if it's a type of squirrel, it looks like something no man should ever put in his mouth.'

Mycroft shook his head and took the vegetable from Greg, 'There are many things a man should not put into his mouth, however this is not one of them.'

'I can think of things I'd rather have in my mouth,' Greg replied darkly, and it was only when he looked up and caught the slightly colouring on Mycroft's cheeks that he realised what he'd said. 

Fortunately Mycroft turned his attention to the bag, frowning in disapproval, 'I do not recall ordering banoffee.'

'Ah, no, I added that.'

Mycroft pursed his lips, and Greg shrugged.

'It's got bananas in it.'

'Which you always pick out.'

'Because I don't like bananas. They're...slimy.'

'Fine, I shall eat your banana is you eat some of my caramel.'

'Is that what you say to all the boys?' he laughed, and Mycroft's blush deepend, but he rallied well and played his trump card.

'Keep that up and you shall not get any scotch.'

'Depends on what sort of scotch.'

'I thought we'd open the '55 Talisker.'

Greg whistled through his teeth, 'Breaking out the good stuff? What's the occasion?'

'I've been cleared to return to work next week. And I think this evening's fight may be a turning point for my brother and Dr Watson.' only Greg would have noticed how either of these things made Mycroft and he smiled.

'Fine. I shall keep my tongue in check and drink your scotch. But I'm not eating any of your poisonous vegetables. Speaking of which,' he pulled Mycroft's reciept out of his back pocket and passed it across to him, 'What the hell is a fucking kohlrabi?'

#

Two hours later Greg leaned back in his seat as Mycroft turned the laptop off.

'Well, that was enlightening.' 

'Bit of an understatement there, Myc,' Greg drained his glass, 'I honestly thought John was going to kiss him there.'

'You said that last time too,' Mycroft pointed out, pouring them another glass each.

'Yeah well, can't blame a bloke for hoping.'

'Do you still have that wager with Mrs Hudson.'

Greg nodded, 'If they cop off before Halloween she owes me fifty quid.'

'And you would take money from an elderly lady? How despicable of you!'

'Uhm, you forget, I've seen what kind of car she drives, don't you be trying to lay on that poor pensioner routine with me.'

Mycroft laughed into his glass. He'd been doing that more lately and Greg had to admit that it was a nice sound.

'If they did get together, you wouldn't have John deported or anything would you?'

'You overestimate my powers.'

'Yeah, right!'

'I'd simply have him shot.'

Greg choked on the mouthful of scotch he'd just taken, 'That's not funny!'

'It is from where I'm sitting.'

'Bastard,' Greg said as he took in the scotch he'd spilled on his shirt.

'Truthfully I find Dr Watson to be both a calming and a highly excitable presence in my brothers life.'

'Yeah, well they promised to stop breaking into public buildings or stealing stuff from museums, which is probably as much as we can hope for. I think John is good for him.'

'As do I. He makes Sherlock happy, and Sherlock deserves to be happy.'

'So do you, you know,' Greg said as looked down into his glass. Then he forced himself to look up at Mycroft, suddenly aware that they were still sitting elbow to elbow, 'You deserve to be happy too.'

Mycroft didn't respond, instead he held Greg's gaze as he took his hand, lifting it up and pressing a kiss to his fingertips, 'Thank you.'

Greg set his glass down on the desk and stood up, 'And that's my cue to leave.'

'Gregory?'

'And you need to get to bed and sleep of all that alcohol.'

'I assure you I am certainly not intoxicated.'

'You only come onto me when you're drunk.' Greg said flatly as he reached the door.

'Will I see you tomorrow?'

Greg's smile was weak, 'Don't you always?'

One of Mycroft's cars was already waiting for him by the time he reached the road and he laughed silently as he opened the door. Having a friend like Mycroft certainly had it's perks.

He didn't look back as they drove away, but if he had he might have spotted Mycroft watching from the library window with a thoughtful expression on his pale face.


	15. Chapter 15

Mycroft abhorred his mandated counseling sessions where an earnest middle aged woman wearing a hairband would encourage him to 'talk it through' with her, although what exactly this jolly, plump woman could talk him through about eating disorders, depression and multiple suicide attempts was still something of a mystery. But it had been a condition of keeping his job, so Mycroft went. He had also promised Gregory, and the thought of letting his best friend down yet again was somehow worse than suffering two sessions a week of being handed pamphlets and told it would all get better.

Exactly when this annoying woman thought it was going to get better was still a mystery.

What Mycroft really wanted to talk about, but never would, was Gregory. His feelings for the man ran deep, that he had never denied. But he was painfully aware of the shift in their friendship and it frustrated him that he couldn't assess why.

After the night they spent spying on Sherlock and Dr Watson, their dinners in had all but stopped, instead they met daily at various convenient restaurants or coffee shops where it was easier to keep to the boundaries they had started to rebuild. 

Looking at Gregory across two plates of mediocre chicken salad, Mycroft found it hard to believe the slightly distracted and distant man at the table had been in his bed just a few days ago.

'You're losing weight,' Gregory said.

'I'm not trying to,' Mycroft speared a piece of cucumber more savagely than he intended, earning himself a slight frown from the policeman.

'That wasn't a criticism, Myc. I was just saying.'

Mycroft nodded and returned to studying Gregory. That he'd ordered a salad was almost unheard of, which suggested he was either dieting or expecting to eat later, and given his usually appetite it was almost certainly the later. He had shaved more carefully than normal, and his slightly distracted look added to only one thing. Gregory had a date.

That in itself was not unusual. Since his divorce he had dated a string of women and men. But he had always told Mycroft about them, trusting Mycroft's judgement more han his own, and something about the fact he hadn't mentioned this person to Mycroft was unusual enough to make Mycroft feel slightly odd about the whole thing.

He didn't mention it however, instead he listened to Gregory's latest complaint about Sherlock's exploits and a minor rant about the losing streak of Gregorys football team. And still Gregory didn't bring it up.

Finally at the end of their meal, just as they parted ways, Mycroft could wait no longer without addressing it.

'Enjoy your evening, Gregory.'

The policeman blinked at him and then shook his head, 'One day you are going to tell me how you do that.'

'But then I would have to kill you,' Mycroft tried to smile and judging from the lack of concern on Gregory's face he was moderately successful.

Gregory headed back to work and Mycroft went the opposite direction trying to work out why he didnt like the idea of Gregory dating someone.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what's this I hear you ask? sexy times? don't mind if I do.

It took less than an hour for Mycroft's curiosity to get the better of him. It didn't take much to find out where Gregory was having dinner,but Mycroft wasn't prepared for what he saw as he drove past.

John Watson.

John Not-Gay Watson was clearly flirting with Gregory. Mycroft suddenly felt cold. Why was Gregory letting John touch him like that? He'd never shown an interest in John before, and yet here they were sharing a bottle of wine and laughing with each other.

Unable to watch any more, Mycroft signalled for his driver to keep going, and he closed his eyes until he was certain they were out of sight.

He rarely used CCTV to watch Gregory, but he found himself accessing cameras to spy on the two men. When they left the restaurant Mycroft was gripping the edge of his desk in fear.

'Don't...' he whispered to himself as he watched not sure if he could cope with seeing Gregory go home with John.

On the screen the two men stopped outside the entrance to the tube, and then Gregory was leaning over John, his hand on the back of John's neck as he kissed him. It was only a moment, but it seemed to last for hours, and then they broke apart and John said something which made Greg laugh before he waved him off and headed in the opposite direction.

Mycroft slammed his laptop closed and poured himself a large scotch as he tried to get that image of the kiss out of his head. It was all wrong, Gregory shouldn't be kissing other people. Why was he doing that when he'd told Mycroft that he loved him?

Because you turned him down. Mycroft closed his eyes and willed the voice in the back of his mind to be silent.

Another drink. That would help.

#

There are some sounds that will always wake even the heaviest of sleepers. Crying babies, smoke alarms...for Greg Lestrade it was the click of a door opening that jerked him awake. He was reaching for the bedside lamp when the figure leaned over the side of the bed and he smelled the familiar scent of Mycroft's colone and he relaxed.

'Mycroft, what the hell? You scared the shit out of me!'

'How did you know it was me and not a thief?'

'Because the sort of men who can afford your colone aren't the sort of men who are going to break into my flat to steal my telly.'

'Would it make this easier if I did?'

'Adding burglary to your repertoire now?'

Mycroft laughed, a soft sound in the darkness.

'Myc? Are you drunk?'

'Perhaps a little bit,' Mycroft admitted and sat down on the edge of the bed, kicking his shoes off.

'What are you doing here?'

'I...I can't sleep without you,' Mycroft said quietly, his back still to Greg.

'That's okay,' Greg shifted over to give Mycroft space, but the politician didn't move to lay down.

'I tried...but I just keep thinking...everything is so confusing. It's too much and I want all the thoughts to stop.'

'Look, just lie down and get some sleep and we'll talk about it all tom-'

'I don't want you to kiss John Watson.'

Greg sat up properly and flicked the lamp on, 'For fuck sake, Mycroft! You were spying on me?'

Mycroft nodded but didn't turn around.

'I don't want you to kiss anyone.'

'Well you don't get to dictate who I kiss, or fuck or anything else. What makes you think yu have the right to break in here and tell me who I can date? You are something else, Mycroft!'

'You're mine.'

'I'm not fucking yours!' Greg was struggling to keep his voice down, mindful of the late hour, but it was hard when Mycroft was just sitting there, refusing to look at him, 'You didn't want me, remember? I offered myself on a plate and you turned me down. But here we are again, Mycroft has a drink and suddenly decides to come onto me. Tell me, Myc, why do you only want me when your drunk?'

Mycroft turned to look at him then, his expression fierce. Greg met his stare and suddenly the atmosphere in the room changed and Mycroft was kissing him hard as Greg pulled at Mycroft's clothes.

And it was a bad idea, he knew that. But oh fuck, he had Mycroft's shirt off exposing all that pale skin and the bloom of freckles across his shoulders, and Mycroft's hand was inside Greg's boxers, cool against the skin.

Greg knew they shouldn't be doing this. They'd both had a drink and they'd regret it afterwards, but Mycroft's hand had closed around Greg and he was stroking him as they kissed, and all of Greg's resolve disappeared as he fought with Mycroft's belt. The only sound in the room were the rustle as clothes were shed and the soft moans as hands ran over skin. Greg was almost scared to open his eyes, he had wanted this for so long, and now Mycroft was naked in his bed kissing him, his body flush against Greg and his own erection pressing hard against hip, and Greg made a decision that he knew would cause them issues the next day.

'Top drawer,' he said, pulling back from Mycroft slightly. Mycroft looked down at him, reading every thought and emotion, and then he was kissing him again, one hand reaching to open the drawer of the bedside cabinet.


	17. Chapter 17

Greg couldn't look at Mycroft, who was on his back, staring at the ceiling.

'Are you okay?' he asked quietly.

'...yes,' he felt Mycroft's weight shift and he steeled himself for the moment Mycroft got out of bed and it would all be over. But instead Mycroft rolled onto his side, pressing his forehead against Greg's shoulder, 'I'm sorry, Gregory.'

Greg sighed, 'Is this the point where you tell me it was all a mistake?'

'No. It's not...I....I don't know how to do this.'

'If you're going to walk out then you need to do it now, because I can't take it.'

'Gregory-'

'Why did you come here?'

There was silence for a long time and when Mycroft spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper.

'I couldn't bear the thought of you with anyone else.'

'You'll have to understand that's a bit rich coming from you.'

'When I saw you with John Watson, I...it triggered something. Jealousy perhaps.'

'Now do you have an idea how I felt when I saw you with your cock in that bloke's mouth?'

He felt Mycroft nod against his shoulder and he almost rolled over to comfort the other man.

'What...what happens now?' Mycroft asked.

'What do you want to happen?'

Another heartbreaking pause and then, 'I don't know.'

'Well, we have a couple of options. We get up tomorrow and pretend that we didn't have sex, never mention it again and go as before. We can have a really awkward conversation about it and then never speak to each other again.'

'Is there a third option?'

'We could do this.' Greg shifted his head so he could look at Mycroft, 'Is that something you want?'

'I don't know,' Mycroft repeated.

Greg cupped Mycroft's chin and lifted it up so Mycroft was forced to look at him.

'You don't have to decide right now. But while you...we are working it out, I'm still going to see other people. I know you'll do the same. But I want us to be honest about it. I need you to be sure. This has been a difficult couple of months, for both of us. I thought....I thought I was going to lose you completley. That's not something either of us are going to get over quickly. So I need you to be sure, take your time, work out if this happened because you want me, or because you don't want me to be with anyone else.'

Mycroft nodded again, his stormy eyes soft and his expression open in way he didn't allow anyone else to see. 

'May I stay here tonight?'

Greg gave him a half smile and then bent his head down and kissed him, just once, before pulling him closer and closing his eyes.

'Of course. Go to sleep Mycroft.'

And for the first time in four days Mycroft did.


	18. Chapter 18

Mycroft didn't want to open his eyes. He let himself drift slowly into consciousness, warm and comfortable. The smell of Gregory was warm and rich and familiar, but the arm that was draped heavily across his waist was a new addition to their previous sleeping arrangements.

He breathed slowly, taking in every second, storing it away, from the way the sheets felt against his bare skin, to the ghost of Gregory's breath against his cheek.

He'd seen Gregory in the early morning many times, and he'd long ago memorized the morning stubble, the way Gregory's eyelids hung heavy over his dark eyes, and the slow smile that took it's time to cross his face, as if even his features were waking up.

The light brush of lips against his was so soft he might have imagined it, just a touch and then gone again, as if the person bestowing it was unsure of it's welcome.

'I know you're awake.'

Mycroft kept his eyes closed, but couldn't stop the small smile that gave him away.

'No I'm not.'

Gregory's thumb traced circles against Mycroft's side, and Mycroft could feel Gregory looking at him, knowing that the other man was smiling that lazy, soft smile of his.

'Open your eyes.'

'I'm afraid I shall have to decline that request.'

'Hungover?'

'Fortunately no. Unfortunately, however, I am aware of what you look like first thing in the morning and-oh!'

Gregory had pulled Mycroft closer to him so their bodies were pressed against each other and he could feel Gregory's lips against his, not quite touching, but less than a hair's breadth away.

'I didn't think I looked that bad in the mornings.'

'...you don't.' Mycroft swallowed.

'Then what is it? Afraid you might be overcome by my roughish good looks?'

Mycroft could feel his cheeks flush then Gregory@s soft laugh against his lips.

'You're blushing! Oh my god, you are adorable.'

'Adorable?' Mycroft demanded, opening his eyes to glare at Gregory, 'I can assure you that the last-'

Whatever he had been able to say flew from his mind as Gregory kissed him again. And in that warm bed, with his best friend holding him close and kissing him so softly, Mycroft felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. Happy.

In the back of his mind he knew the feeling wouldn't last, and that they would have long conversations ahead of them, but for the moment all that could wait.


	19. Chapter 19

'Mycroft?' John laughed, 'Seriously?'

'Fuck off!'

'No. You turned me down and then you went home and shagged Mycroft?' John's laughter was starting to get on Greg's nerves.

'It's not like that.'

'Yes it is,' John smirked, 'It's exactly like that.' he paused and looked at Greg carefully before shaking his head, 'Oh my god, you like him.'

'John-'

'You really like him. So I guess we're not having a second date.'

'It's not like that.'

'You keep saying that.'

'Don#'t be a dick, John.'

'Hey, I'm not the one who left our date and went and shagged someone else.'

'It was just Mycroft!'

'Just Mycroft?'

'You know what I mean!'

The soft cough stopped them both mid sentence. Greg turned to see Mycroft standing in the archway to the kitchen, a thick manila file in his hand.

'Will you see that Sherlock get's this?' he asked, and then, without waiting for a reply, he set the file on the table and turned to leave. Greg was right behind him.

'Myc!'

Mycroft stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to face Greg, his face blank, 'Detective Inspector?'

'Don't do that.'

'Do what?'

'Be a dick!'

Mycroft sighed and turned away, 'I have work to do, Gregory. Perhaps your histeronics would be better suited to another time.'

Before Greg could respond, Mycroft was out the door and across the street to his waiting car.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one - it's been very hard to write and I didn't want to rush it. Still I have the last of it written up and I'll post it over the next few days. Thank you to everyone who is still reading this. C

Greg had called Mycroft every day for almost a week and on those rare occasions when he actually managed to speak to him Mycroft was distant and curt and at the slightest hint of anything personal, in particular what Mycroft had overheard Greg say to John, the call was ended abruptly. And so Greg hadn't been able to explain to Mycroft what he had meant.

It's wasn't just Mycroft.

It was JUST Mycroft.

Even John had known that. He'd known and understood why Greg had taken that chance with Mycroft when it came, because even John knew that for Greg it was just Mycroft. Only Mycroft.

And because it was Mycroft, Greg knew that he couldn't crowd the other man. So he called once a day, and occasionally left a text message and when he was really desperate he would contact Anthea, who's replies were equally as curt, but at least reassured Greg that Mycroft was alive.

With the loss of their daily meals Greg had resorted to eating lunch at his desk, when he could be bothered to eat it at all, and a greasy takeaway each night, which he would pick through half-heartedly for twenty minutes before putting the left overs in the fridge never to be touched again.

He was just coming out of the Thai place at the bottom of his street, carrier bag in hand, when he got a call from John Watson. Greg was running before the bag even hit the ground.

#

His housekeeper had found him when she went to change the bed sheets. Sherlock was stalking the corridor complaining bitterly about why he had to be there, but Greg could see that under the annoyance Sherlock was actually terrified. He could say whatever he liked, but Greg knew that he really loved and worried about his older brother. That didn't stop him demanding that John took him home every few minutes.

Mycroft looked very small in the hospital bed, the far too familiar IV and heart monitor, the too-white sheets making his pale skin look grey and sickly.

Greg froze in the doorway and just stared, feeling helpless as he watched Mycroft. Despite the situation and his rising anger at his friend, he was still struck by how peaceful Mycroft looked when he was asleep, the slight frown smoothed out, his lips slightly parted as he breathed slowly. At any other time Greg would have felt a warm thrill at watching Mycroft like that, but not now. Now he just felt angry. Angry at Mycroft and angry at himself.

He walked forward mechanically, his legs feeling like they belonged to someone else, and sat down on the chair beside Mycroft's bed.

When Mycroft woke up they were going to talk.


	21. Chapter 21

Greg wasn't there when Mycroft woke up, and although he felt guilty about that, there was also a sort of relief that came with it. He had received a message from John, which had come through Sherlock via his mother from Anthea. That...hurt. A week ago Greg would have been the first person Anthea contacted, but not he was the last in the chain. He was glad that there was no one around to see how wretched he looked when he realised that.

He made his way to the hospital straight away. As he approached Mycroft's room the two agents stationed outside it straightened up and shifted position slightly to block his way, their expressions professionally blank. Greg didn't break his stride, he set his jaw and glared at them. He was stopped by a shoulder. Without turning his head he growled at them.

'Move!'

There was a seconds hesitation and then the agent shifted sideways enough to allow Greg past, and he pushed open the door and entered quietly.

Mycroft was sitting up slightly, skin grey, eyes dull and sunken. Violet was sitting beside him, speaking softly but sternly. In the corner Anthea was leaning against the wall, tapping at her Blackberry. Only Violet and Anthea looked up when Greg came in. Mycroft kept his gaze focused on the sheet over his knees.

Violet started to speak to Greg, but Anthea made a sound that said clearly that Violet should follow her, which the older woman did with a frown and pursed lips. After they were gone Greg stood where he was for a moment, watching Mycroft who still hadn't moved or acknowledged his presence.

He took several deep breaths and then moved across to sit on the chair vacated by Violet. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head to run his hands through his hair.

'You're angry.'

Mycroft's voice was quiet and he didn't lift his head to speak.

Licking his lips Greg took a second to answer, 'Yeah,' he replied, surprised at how soft his voice was, 'I am.'

Mycroft nodded but didn't say anything.

'You promised,' Greg said, his voice cracking.

'I didn't mean to do it.'

Mycroft finally turned to look at Greg, his eyes damp and his expression that of a man completely broken.

'I just wanted to sleep,' he whispered, 'I was so tired. I...I just...I lost count...'

Greg didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything, he just looked at Mycroft, willing the other man to understand what he was feeling just by looking at him. But Mycroft's eyes weren't travelling his face the way they usually did, they were dull and unfocused, as if just looking at Greg was too exhausting for him.

'I couldn't sleep without you,' he said eventually, 'But...you...' he broke off and dropped his gaze to the sheet again.

Without realising he was doing it, Greg reached out and put his hand over Mycroft's, wrapping his fingers around it and stroking his thumb once over the pale skin.

'Don't,' Mycroft said, and went to pull his hand away, 'Don't pity me.'

'I don't. But I am sorry. What you heard me say to John....you didn't...' Greg sighed, 'It's not 'just you' it's JUST you.'

Greg let those words hang between them for a long time until Mycroft finally looked up at him, understanding in his eyes, but a fear as well, as if he didn't dare allow himself to hope. Greg took the opportunity to tighten his grip on Mycroft's hand.

'Just you,' he repeated.

They simply looked at each other and as the politician's eyes slowly started to droop, Greg could see how exhausted the other man really was, and it frightened him. He'd never seen him look like that before, even after he'd been working for three days without sleep.

'Get some rest, Myc,' he said softly, his thumb still stroking the back of Mycroft's hand, 'We can talk later.'

'I can't sleep without you,' Mycroft's voice was little more than an embarrassed murmur.

Greg lifted Mycroft's hand to his lips and kissed it softly, never breaking eye contact with the other man.

'I'll be right here,' he promised.

Mycroft nodded and leaned back onto the pillow and was asleep almost instantly, his hand still wrapped in Greg's.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry for the massive delay in updates lately - I've been on location for most of the last 2 months doing 12 and 14 hour days and am just exhausted. For any of you considering a career in tv or film - don't! It's fucking exhausting, frequently boring (often hillarious too though) physically hard and you feel like you are losing your mind!

Greg sat with Mycroft through the night, occasionally dozing off for short naps in the chair, but never letting go of Mycroft's hand. When he was awake he watched over the politician as he slept, the medication keeping him under for far longer than Mycroft would ever normally sleep.

Nurses came every hour to check on Mycroft and make notes on his chart, and shortly after 2am one of them brought Greg a mug of tea and a some hobnobs, for which he thanked her profusely. And all the while Mycroft slept.

When the morning came it was the rattle of the meal trolley that finally roused Mycroft. Greg smiled.

'You slept through ambulances under your window all night, nurses coming in an out and some poor sod screaming across the corridor. Didn't so much as stir all night. But one whiff of Earl Grey and you're wide awake! Typical!'

Mycroft rolled his eyes and Greg carried on smiling.

'How are you feeling this morning?'

'Exhausted,' Mycroft said after a pause.

'You slept for nearly twelve hours straight.'

'Not so much sleep as...unconsciousness,' Mycroft pushed himself into a sitting position which meant that Greg had to let go of his hand. 

Greg nodded, 'I know that feeling. Three days on a case with no sleep and then you basically just collapse. But it's not like proper sleep, so you just feel like shit for days afterwards. Although I suppose you are used to going days at a time without a kip.'

'That does not mean I don't feel the effects.'

Before Greg had a chance to answer there was a soft knock and then a doctor appeared to check over Mycroft. Greg stood and excused himself.

'I'll go to the canteen and grab some breakfast,' he said in response to Mycroft's worried expression, 'Then I'll come right back.' he assured.

He walked stiffly through the corridors in the direction of the canteen, taking a moment to check his phone for anything urgent and debating whether he had enough time to nip home and get some clean clothes, before he spotted Mycroft's omnipotent assistant waiting at the doors. At her feet were two bags, one soft leather and hand stitches, and the other an ancient battered hold-all that had one broken strap and always smelled faintly of damp jumpers. In her hand was a silver thermos flask which he handed to Greg.

'Mr Holmes will require a change of clothes and his own toiletries. I took the liberty of collecting some items of yours also.'

Greg smiled in gratitude, 'Cheers, Anthea. I'm starting to whiff a bit.'

She just raised her eyebrows in a gesture she had clearly learned from Mycroft, and Greg felt his smile fade.

'He will be discharged tomorrow. A car will be waiting for him at 11am.'

'We don't know when he's getting out yet!'

'YOU don't.'

Greg bit his tongue, reminding himself that Anthea was on his side, that is was her JOB to know things before anyone else, and to look after Mycroft. Once, after too much red wine, Mycroft had told him that Anthea had an IQ of 147 spoke nine languages and had been recruited by Mycroft's organisation after one of the country's most proflific and dangerous rapists had broken into her student flat and she'd killed him with an Ikea trifle dish and a bag of satsumas. Greg had never asked questions about that night, although he'd stopped buying oranges.

He'd once asked Mycroft his IQ and Mycroft had shrugged, 'I have no idea.'

'Come on, I've met your mum, she'd have had you tested.'

'She did,' Mycroft confirmed.

'But you don't know the results?'

'They were somewhat...inconclusive.'

Greg hadn't really known what to say to that. On one hand his best friend may well be the most intelligent human being in all history, but on the other hand said man couldn't work the camera on his mobile....

Suddenly becoming aware that Anthea was still looking at him, almost as if she wanted to say something but wasn't sure how to phrase it. It was a look he was very familiar with, John Watson wore it a lot, usually when trying to come up with a good explanation for Sherlock's latest antics.

'Detective Inspector,' she said in her cool voice, 'May I speak frankly?'

'Don't you always?'

'It's a delicate matter.'

'You mean Myc?' Greg said softly.

For a moment Anthea didn't say anything, and then she nodded, 'Mr Holmes is a great man and I cannot overstate his worth....both professionally and privately.' she said the last word very carefully, and although her tone was soft, Greg got the distinct feeling he was being threatened.

'Yes,' was all he could manage.

'He keeps his personal life very private to the extent that he doesn't have relationships of any nature. No friends to speak of. Except two.'

Greg closed his eyes as her words sunk in, 'Me and you, right?'

And that knowledge stabbed at Greg's heart, even though he already knew. Mycroft, his amazing, wonderful, funny, sexy as hell Mycroft deserved more than that.

'Quite correct. He has two friends, his parents and his siblings. We are the only people he cares about. I may be his friend, but I am bottom of his list.' she paused, biting her lip for a second before she regained her composure, 'But frankly, between ourselves, being on his list is so....Mr Holmes is not prone to care about other people. It's a privilege to be one of them, which is why I do everything I can for him.'

And there it was. The thinly concealed warning. The government PA version of 'If you hurt him I'll kill you.'

Greg didn't know whether to grin or cry, and somewhere in the swirl of emotions clouding his brain he acknowledged that Anthea was probably the only other person in the world who knew what it was like to really KNOW Mycroft. And he suddenly knew he could trust her with anything, not just because Mycroft trusted her, but because if she was part of that tiny inner sanctum then she most definitely knew everything anyway.

'I love him, Anth.'

'Quite right,' she nodded curtly then indicated the bags at her feet, clearly meaning she would not help Greg carry them.

Then with a 'Good morning, Detective Inspector,' she walked off, her smart heels clicking efficiently on the tiles.

'What should I do?' Greg called after her.

'You should stop calling me 'Anth',' she replied without looking back.

Greg watched her go and then let out a small huff of laughter and picked up the bags, wedging the thermos under his arm and setting off back to Mycroft's room to be the best friend that he could be to the most amazing man. And perhaps change his underwear and socks.


	23. Chapter 23

'Are you sure you won't have some Tieguanyin tea?' Mycroft offered the thermos to Greg who pulled a face.  
'You know I only drink cheap instant coffee as dark and black as your assistants soul.'  
This drew a smile from Mycroft at least.  
'Did she threaten you?'

'You'd be disappointed if she didn't. And Anthea never disappoints.' he wasn't sure why he had such a bitter tone when he said it, and neither it seemed was Mycroft.

'Is this where we have our...talk?' the politician asked uncertainly, looking impossibly fragile sitting there in his hospital bed.

'We probably should,' Greg said slowly, not looking at Mycroft, 'I...I think I should start.'

Mycroft didn't say anything, but his grip on his cup tightened ever so slightly as he waited to hear what Greg was about to say.

'The other night...the night we...' he sighed and closed his eyes, 'Do you want me?'

'Yes.' Mycroft's answer was immediate and his voice was quiet.

'...just me? Because...because that's what it would have to be. Only me. No...I can't. I don't care if it's a 'weapon' or if the whole world is relying on you giving some president or prince a blow job. I can't...' he trailed off and tried to steady his breathing.

There was a long, painful silence.

He's going to say no, Greg thought, and he tried to brace himself again the flood of grief that was rushing through him.

'Just you.'

He snapped his head up to find Mycroft looking down at his tea as if it held the answers to everything. And at three thousand quid a kilo it bloody should.

'Myc...' he breathed.

The politician lifted his head then and looked back at Greg, the naked emotion on his face pushed Greg to tears and he rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

One of Mycroft's cool, pale hands touched his, pulling it away from his face and bringing it to the redhead's lips where he kissed it very gently. Greg let out a small gasp and then bit his lip to stop a sob.

How, he wondered, was it possible to be so fucking completely in love with another person the way he was with the man holding his hand.There would be more conversations, painful ones, but this was not the time for them. Not when this fragile thing between them was still so delicate. Now was the time to hold hands and just be with each other. Just each other.


	24. Chapter 24

At five to eleven a car was waiting outside the hospital, it's driver waiting patiently by the door for his employer, his posture alert and his air one of disinterest as he ignored the curious glances of passers by.

Greg glared at him as he approached. He had little time for Mycroft's staff, most of which he considered to be unnecessary and their employment pure posturing on Mycroft's part. He long ago came to realise that they held similar opinions of him, their distrust in their bosses choice of friend very clear in their expressions, although their actual words and actions were never anything but completely professional.

Currently the driver was doing his best to pretend that Greg didn't exist, which suited Greg just fine.

He still wasn't entirely sure how Mycroft had managed to persuade the doctors to discharge him, or how Anthea had known about it the day before the decision was made, but whatever strings she had pulled, or threats she had issues, it had resulted in Greg waiting outside the doors, having a quick cigarette.

It was a few minutes after eleven when Mycroft emerged, accompanied by a formidable looking Anthea who was tapping on her mobile and didn't look up as the driver opened the door for them.

Mycroft started to moved towards the car, and then, when he was halfway inside, he looked up to Greg for reassurance. The policeman was one of the few people in the world that was able to edecipher that expression on Mycroft's face. To anyone else it would simply look like impatience. To keep up the facade and save Mycroft's embarrassment in front of his driver and anyone else who might be looking, Greg made a show of rolling his eyes and sighing.

'I'm coming,' he huffed stamping out his cigarette. He pushed past Anthea and climbed in beside Mycroft who scooted across to make room.

Anthea stepped forward to follow them, but Greg shut the door before she could. The look of shock on her face was swiftly replaced by annoyance and Greg knew that he was in for a dressing down later, but right in that moment he didn't give a shit.

Anthea got in the front beside the driver and Greg raised the privacy screen just in case he hadn't been clear enough. Holding his breath he finally turned to Mycroft as the car pulled away. Without a word he wrapped an arm around Mycroft and pulled the politician towards him until he was tucked close against Greg, both of the policeman's arms around him to shield him from everything else outside of their little cocoon.

Neither of them spoke on the short journey to Mycroft's home, but Greg could feel Mycroft's heart beating just a little too fast and he hummed softly in an attempt to soothe the other man.

On reaching Mycroft's home Greg exited first before the driver had a chance to open the door, knowing full well how much the driver hated that, and then he reached to help Mycroft stand.

Drawing himself up to a passable version of his usual self, Mycroft nodded sharply at his driver and assistant, who had climbed out of her own side unaided and unimpressed.

'Thank you Oswald,' and then to his PA, 'That will be all for today, Anthea.'

Anthea opened her mouth as if to speak, but caught the look on Greg's face and her expression shut down. She nodded professionally.

'Yes sir.'

'And take tomorrow off too,' Greg suggested, and although Mycroft didn't say anything, he could feel the politician's disaproval radiating through him.

But once they were inside Mycroft turned to Greg, furious.

'What were you thinking giving my staff orders?' he demanded.

'I was thinking they should probably get used to it!'

Mycroft's expression could only be described as incredulous, and then slowly it vanished and his shoulders relaxed as he nodded.

'Yes,' he said slowly, cautiously as he tried out to new scenario in his mind, 'I suppose they should.'

It was an acknowledgment of the spoken and unspoken changed in their relationship and the future it may have. In his determination to remember the moment, Greg couldn't help but note the dark shadows under Mycroft's eyes, and the slight shake of his hands as he struggled out of his coat.

'You alright?'

Mycroft turned slowly to face Greg and blinked several times.

'I'm not entirely certain,' he said and seemed surprised at his own admission.

'Do you need some time on your-'

'No!' Mycroft cut him off looking almost desperate.

'Okay, okay,' Greg assured softly, 'Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here.'

'I'm not worried.'

'Okay.'

'I'm not! Why would I be-'

'Myc!' Greg took hold of Mycroft's waving hands and held them tightly until Mycroft calmed enough to focus on him, '...it's okay.'

It took a long minute, but Mycroft finally relaxed and his eyes closed. Immediatey Greg let go of his hands and pulled him close again until Mycroft's head was resting against his shoulder. The politician sighed deeply.

'We should probably get you to be, you need to rest.'

'I don't want to rest.'

'I didn't ask what you wanted,' Greg couldn't help but smile. Mycroft made a sound of annoyance and buried his face into Greg's neck with an almost childlike need to seek comfort and protection. Without thinking about it, Greg dropped his head and pressed a kiss against Mycroft's hair.

'Well,' he said, 'If you won't go to bed then let's get you to the sofa and I'll make you tea.'

'Scotch.'

'I said tea.'

'But I believe you meant scotch.'

'I really didn't,'

Mycroft made a sound that might have been a snort of displeasure and Greg tightened his hold on him again, breathing in the scent of Mycroft's shampoo. It was these moments that made his chest heave and his body fill with a sickening cold that would take days to lift.

He had come so close to losing Mycroft so many times, but there was something about this time that was different. This time Mycroft hadn't been trying to....leave. He'd just wanted to sleep, just a few hours of rest away from the worry and pain of his daily life. Pain that Greg had contributed to this time, even though that had never been his intention. And the knowledge of that would stay with him for the rest of his life. He'd felt guilt before, but it was nothing compared to how he felt when he saw Mycroft in that hospital bed.

He wasn't aware how tight he was holding Mycroft until the politician shifted in his arms.

'Gregory?' the soft concern in his voice was heartbreaking.

'I'm alright,' he said gruffly, not relaxing his grip, 'Just thinking about the completely cack handed way I said....' he trailed off, blinking hard to prevent his tears, and then nuzzled closer into the crook of Mycroft's neck, 'I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to hear that and I was already making such a hash of explaining to John that I -'

'Say it again.'

Greg almost doubted that Mycroft had spoken, but there was a sense of anticipation and uncertainty surrounding Mycroft now and Greg refused to let him feel that way for a second longer.

'It's you,' he said into the fabric of Mycroft's collar, 'Just you.'


	25. Chapter 25

'... _just you...'_

In his arms Mycroft started to relax, but now that Greg had begun he couldn't stop. Too many years and months of these emotions and this was the first time he had let them out calmly. Standing in he safety of Mycroft's home, Mycroft cradled gently against him, secure in his arms. Safe. Safe and seeking reassurance, reaching out to Greg for the words that would settle his racing mind and uncertain heart.

'Only you,' Greg was only vaguely aware he had repeated himself a dozen times. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the warmth of Mycroft's breath and the beat of his heart against Greg's chest, and the complete certainty that this is what he wanted. He wanted Mycroft. Safe and happy and with him.

'Are you certain?' Mycroft's voice was slightly muffled.

'Yes.' there wasn't even a beat of hesitation. As soon as Greg said the word he pulled back and looked into Mycroft's pale face, 'You are...it's been you for so long that I don't even remember when it wasn't you.' he couldn't have been any more honest, 'I don't know when it happened, but I fell so fucking hard for someone who was already my best friend. I'll be honest, Myc, I don't know why, all I know is...all I know is that I love you, in so many way that-'

'Love is a construct of the-'

Greg held his hand up to cut Mycroft off. He didn't need a Holmesian derision right then. He knew exactly what love was. It was complicated and difficult. It was needing another person so much that it physically hurt to be apart from them. It was in jokes and stories and the same three arguments on a loop, any malice long gone and only the familiar grumble left. It was a hospital room at 3am. It was trying to teach the rules of rugby to someone who'd last played sport thirty years ago. It was complaining about not understanding a word of the opera but going anyway because it was was worth three hours of boredom and discomfort just to see the pleasure it brought someone else.

It was all of this and so much more. But what it all boiled down to in the end was how it felt in that moment when you held that person and you weren't sure if you could ever let them go again.

These thoughts craxched through Greg's mind and then as quickly as they had come they were gone again and all that was left was the magnificent man standing in front of him. And Christ Greg wished that Mycroft could see what he did. Because Mycroft WAS magnificent. Intelligent. Powerful. Thoughtful. Gorgeous. Fuck, the man took his breath away.

'Gregory?' Mycroft's voice filtered through Greg's thoughts, 'Are you alright?'

Greg focused on his friend, 'Yes.'

'You seemed far away for a moment.' Mycroft carried on uncertainly.

'I was thinking how gorgeous you are,' Greg answered truthfully.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow and looked disbelieving, almost comically so. So much hat Greg couldn't resist the urge to take Mycroft's face in his hands and kiss him softly.

'Really.' he said gently, and watched as Mycroft's keen eyes scanned Greg's face and came to the realisation that the policeman was telling the truth. The soft 'oh' Mycroft made was heartbreakinly adorable.

Letting go of Mycroft's face, Greg took hold of his elbow instead and turned him towards the sofa.

'Sit,' he commanded.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, 'Yes sir.'

Greg felt a thrill at the term and smirked.

'I like that. You should call me that more often.'

'Bring me scotch and I shall address you any way you wish.'

With a soft laugh Greg settled Mycroft on the sofa and turned towards the kitchen. He filled the kettle and retrieved cups from the cupboard. He was about to fetch the milk when the last few days caught up with him and he fell against the sink, gripping the edge hard to steady himself.

Out of nowhere his heart was beating so hard it was painful, snatching his breath from his chest and causing his blood to freeze.

He had almost lost him again.And he knew that thought would haunt him for a long time to come.

'Gregory?'

Greg didn't turn around, instead he straightened up and reached for the kettle again. This time he flicked it off.

'Maybe scotch is needed after all.'

Mycroft didn't respond, but Greg hadn't expected him to. Mycroft's default when he was unsure was silence, sometimes this was to intimidate, sometimes, like now, it was because he wasn't sure what to say and was afraid of being wrong.

Greg knew it was up to him to take control of the moment, so, taking a deep breath, he turned around and smiled at Mycroft.

'Scotch,' he repeated and went to retrieve the bottle, 'Oh, and just so we are clear, you know I live here now, right?'

The little gasp of surprise from Mycroft was more than worth it.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so this is done. I wanted to leave it with the promise of future happiness, even though they aren't quite there yet. I think I will come back to this again in the future to explore what happens next though.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting - I love you all, you are wonderful.
> 
> Cla

'...just you...'  
In his arms Mycroft started to relax, but now that Greg had begun he couldn't stop. Too many years and months of these emotions and this was the first time he had let them out calmly. Standing in he safety of Mycroft's home, Mycroft cradled gently against him, secure in his arms. Safe. Safe and seeking reassurance, reaching out to Greg for the words that would settle his racing mind and uncertain heart.  
'Only you,' Greg was only vaguely aware he had repeated himself a dozen times. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the warmth of Mycroft's breath and the beat of his heart against Greg's chest, and the complete certainty that this is what he wanted. He wanted Mycroft. Safe and happy and with him.  
'Are you certain?' Mycroft's voice was slightly muffled.  
'Yes.' there wasn't even a beat of hesitation. As soon as Greg said the word he pulled back and looked into Mycroft's pale face, 'You are...it's been you for so long that I don't even remember when it wasn't you.' he couldn't have been any more honest, 'I don't know when it happened, but I fell so fucking hard for someone who was already my best friend. I'll be honest, Myc, I don't know why, all I know is...all I know is that I love you, in so many way that-'  
'Love is a construct of the-'  
'Please don't do that.'  
Mycroft bit his lip, falling silent, an innocence that only Greg ever got to see. Greg stopped the other man sliding his gaze away by tipping Mycroft's chin, forcing him keep looking at him.  
'Don't take this away from yourself.'  
At the simple request, Mycroft's mouth opened, his eyes widdened and he seemed to stop for a moment. Greg let him work through the request on his own, watching as Mycroft's expression changed, watching as he realised what Greg was asking of him.

#

Words from countless therapy sessions with a seemingly endless stream of cliche toting imbeciles raced through his mind as Mycroft tried to find something, anything that they had ever said to him that made as much sense as those six words Gregory had requested of him.  
And suddenly he saw, with something approaching incredulity, how easily Gregory had countered decades of overwhelming and complex emotions. For the first time in his life Mycroft realised that this was one thing, one honest thing, that came down to him. Security, love, honesty. All he had to do was allow himself to accept it.  
Gregory's hands were warm where they touched Mycroft's skin, and it took Mycroft a moment to realise that Gregory's thumb was once again gently stroking over the scars on his wrist, but the policeman's expression hadn't changed.  
He had seen everything. Everything that was part of Mycroft. All of the bad and all of what Mycroft desperately hoped was good. He had seen Mycroft at his absolute worst. Seen his damaged body. Known the things Mycroft had done to himself. The things Mycroft had thought.  
And still he stood there in front of him, offering Mycroft all those things Mycroft had never expected to have. Asking that he be enough for Mycroft. No one had ever asked if they were enough for Mycroft, and yet here was this wonderful man with pleading in his soft brown eyes.  
'Are you certain?' Mycroft whispered. They were not the words he had wanted to say, but they were close.  
In response Gregory leaned forward and kissed him so softly it didn't quite feel real.  
'You don't ever have to ask me that again.'

#

The sky was starting to get light when Mycroft felt the figure beside him stir slightly. And then a sleep head was burrowing into the back of his neck and the arm around him tightened, the weight reassuring in the semi darkness.  
He was warm and comfortable, safe surrounded by the scent of Gregory. He'd spent most of the night listening to Gregory talking in his sleep, which was both irritating and adorable in equal measure, although he was certain it would get annoying quite quickly, however he was certain he could train it out of the policeman. First though was Gregory's tendency to turn into a nocturnal octopus. While being held close by the sleeping man filled Mycroft with a sense of ease he had rarely felt before, he was pragmatic enough to know that trying to escape that grip when, for example, using the bathroom was a rather urgent necessity would be less comfortable.  
Gregory shuffled again and mumbled something against Mycroft's neck and Mycroft felt a blossoming and unfamiliar warmth flooding his body.  
It took him a long moment to work out what it was, it had been so very long since he had felt it so acutely.  
It was happiness.


End file.
